


Fear in Practice

by on_the_wing



Series: The Absence of Monsters [3]
Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Biting, Deimos Gets Talkative, Intimidation, M/M, Moving Kind of Fast Here Don't You Think, Sisterknives, The Gym Is the Gayest Place, Threats of Violence, Topping from the Bottom, rudeness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_wing/pseuds/on_the_wing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our heroes decide to confront their demons. And by “confront,” I mean, uh…you know. Things get so gay that even Cain has to flee. </p><p>Also, the mystery of why no one has any body hair is revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear in Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Alternating Praxis and Deimos POVs this time. Praxis = past tense, Deimos = present tense, if you get confused.

I dreamed that a tree was growing out of my back, but only the roots. They were pushing out from the skin and it hurt, badly, but somehow I knew I had to lie down and let them dig into the soil. Once I did it would feel so good and right and I would finally be able to breathe. The problem was, there was nothing but hard tile floors or concrete everywhere I looked.  
  
And then I saw him. The one with the knife. He was sitting crosslegged on a window seat turning something around in his hands, his hair curtaining his narrow face. I thought maybe he could use the knife to chip through the cracks between the tiles, and I started toward him, but then stopped because what if he decided to cut off my roots instead? I must look obscene, an abomination.  
  
He lifted his head to look at me, and when I saw those hooded pale eyes I felt such a streak of pure electric fear that I woke up.  
  
***  
  
The movement of the bunk startles me awake, and I instinctively reach for Yelena under the pillow and pull her out, snapping her open.  
  
My roommate, too sleepy and stupid to notice, tumbles out of the bottom bunk and staggers off to the bathroom, switching on the light on the way. Gosh, thanks. I close Yelena and slide her back under the pillow. He might even think he’s being helpful, who knows.  
  
I don’t remember falling asleep. I think I missed dinner. Shit. What if He needed me for something? It’s not like we spend all our time together but we have been eating together at least once a day. It’s a good time to scope people out and see how they interact. I assume this is something that He finds useful, or at least amusing, judging from His comments.  
  
I roll over and check my tablet for messages. His id number, F05-0628, flashes at me from the screen. We’re supposed to call each other by our id numbers until we get task names, but I can’t imagine calling Him 628, or Him calling me 576. People have been acquiring nicknames, some used to their face, some otherwise, but I wouldn’t dare give Him one. I don’t particularly like the one He gave me, but I like that He gave me one. It’s a lot nicer than some of the ones my stepfather used to give me, or even my sisters, when they were feeling pissy.    
  
I open the messages. _Yo_ , says the first. _Gdye tui@?_  
  
The second: _gonna eat all the chicken kiev if u don’t get here soon_  
  
The third: _i know u liek swallowing that juicy cock meat_  
  
The fourth: _no homo lol_  
  
The fifth: _Srsly tho where the fuck did u go_  
  
I type back, _Sorry, got sick and fell asleep, better now_ , and send. It’s not a lie. That—story, those feelings, they are a sickness. Marsh is never going to want me, except possibly in some twisted physical way, and his name is not Marsh, and that person I told the story about does not exist. The person does not exist who could ever feel that way about me, at least not that quickly. And if he did, he’d be even more fucked up than I am.  
  
But I just can’t shake how real it all feels now. If he did pull me into a storeroom to rough me up on the way to breakfast, I’d probably give him a kiss and ask how he slept. And then he’d ask me if it was time to stab him yet and—NO. He wouldn’t. It was not real. I must have dreamed about it or something. My imagination is vivid, but it’s not usually _this_ vivid.  
  
It hurts. I miss the Marsh that never was. I want his arms around me and his rueful little smile and his gentle teasing. I want him to pick me up and carry me to breakfast and set me on his lap and feed me strawberries. Ridiculous, disgusting, shameful things. I always want too much but this is over the top. Besides, they would never have strawberries in the cafeteria.  
  
Maybe I need to…see him. To break that bubble. Otherwise it’ll just get worse. First I have to see Him, though. And training. I think a lot of training is in order. I might just become a goody two-shoes yet.  
  
***  
  
I was on high alert during breakfast, and on the way to breakfast. I didn’t feel like eating, frankly, but I was determined to go about my routine, such as it was, and show no sign of weakness. I went early and camped out in a corner table with a good view of the room.  
  
Was I hoping to see him or hoping not to see him? I didn’t know. I just wanted to see him first if he was there. Although…I did want to know what he was doing. What they were doing. Well, maybe I didn’t want to know. I’m not exactly inconspicuous, anyway. I would be terrible at stalking someone, even if I were that creepy. I couldn’t believe I was even thinking about that.  
  
I stabbed at a bugmeal sausage patty. I wanted to go practice some VR fighting, but now I was afraid to put on a helmet and leave myself blind and deaf to the outside world. It would be different if I had someone to watch my back. At home, that would be no problem, but I don’t know anyone here well enough to tell them about it, and it would be weird to just ask someone to take turns with the helmets. No one wants to sit around watching someone else train; they want to do it themselves. Well, not unless they’re hoping to get in your pants. Although hmm, maybe if I asked someone to give me tips? They’d have to be someone who was friendly, reasonably trustworthy, _and_ better than I am at fighting. Those things don’t generally go together on this ship, though. Everyone’s too new, too busy trying to establish a pecking order. Better not to show vulnerability, at least not yet.  
  
A couple of the guys that I sometimes ate with waved at me and headed over. I wondered, not for the first time, if they might actually be a couple. They’re from the same city and they call each other by their real names, Kasimir and Pavel. They managed to switch bunkmates—unofficially, of course—so they could room together. I guess you wouldn’t even have to be a couple to do that. You might just want someone you trust to watch your back.  
  
I wondered what it was going to be like rooming with a navigator, someone I was actually supposed to have some kind of relationship with. I hoped he wouldn’t be afraid of me. I hoped I wouldn’t be afraid of _him_. Considering what I had seen of fighters so far, I was shocked that they put us in rooms with navigators one-on-one. Maybe navigators are all black-belt martial artists or know ancient mind control secrets. Or maybe they’re just counting on us to behave because a better bond means better scores.  
  
I greeted Pavel and Kasimir as they sat down across from me with their backs to the rest of the room. What sweet ignorance. No one was gunning for them, or, rather, knifing. Knifing. I shivered.  
  
“Are you okay?” Pavel frowned.  
  
“What do you mean?” I played dumb, shoving a bite of toast into my mouth.  
  
“You just looked kind of…bearish.”  
  
Kasimir snorted. “He’s not hairy enough to be a bear.”  
  
“How would you know? The soap has that girly stuff that makes your hair fall out. We’re all bald as babies below the eyelashes.”  
  
“Why do they do that?” I asked. “It’s kind of creepy. Although I guess it saves time not having to shave.” We had been warned about that, but the first time I took a shower on board had been disturbing, to say the least.  
  
“Bingo,” said Kasimir. “And more to the point, it keeps us from needing razors.”  
  
“Oh.” Not like that stops some people, apparently.  
  
“You’re getting bearish again,” Pavel warned.  
  
“Maybe he’s looking for his honey.”  
  
I glared at Kasimir. Not that he knew, but my little queen bee had flown away to a new hive, no more honey for me ever. “Not seeing any of that here.”  
  
He smiled enigmatically. “It’s there, if you know where to look.”  
  
Pavel rolled his eyes.  
  
This was a good excuse to scan the room. “Nope, still don’t see any.”  
  
“Maybe your navvy will have some.”  
  
I scraped my chair back and stood up. “I’ve had enough sweetness for one morning. Anyone want to go lift?”  
  
“We just started eating,” Pavel pointed out.  
  
Kasimir smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry, myedvyed, we’ll be there soon.”  
  
***  
  
_He_ has better things to do than watch my back in the VR helmets, but sometimes He’ll spar with me. He won’t wrestle though, more’s the pity. Today He just wants me to spot him while he lifts, though.  
  
He’s on His back doing bench presses, so I see Marsh before He does, before Marsh sees me. Real Marsh. Still looking bothered, still looking hot, prowling around like he’d like to eat someone up. I hope it’s me. _Stop it_. Marsh’s eyes scan the room, catch mine, burn right through me. I can’t move. All I can do is stare back and try to kill the thoughts that are gripping me, the ones about dropping to my knees and sucking him off right here in front of everyone. And then working a finger or two up his ass to make him scream.  
  
“Ugh, Myshonok, I know it’s hot when I lift, but if you don’t get that out of my face I’m gonna—wait, what are you looking at?” He sits up. “ _Oh_.” He favors Marsh with a wolfy grin, and from across the room Marsh grits his teeth and hefts his own set of weights. And it’s on. Oh, the testosterone.  
  
Marsh is slower, more deliberate today, using better form. Much more menacing. He’s also using more weight than He is, which will probably tire him out quicker, giving Him the advantage in any confrontation they may have soon after. Unless Marsh is just stronger—o, traitorous thought! Well, not really. Sheer brawn isn’t everything. Not even if he has shoulders like bowling balls and forearms the size of my thighs and okay, let’s try not to think about his forearms and my thighs in close proximity except now I am doing that. Also his hands and— _stop it_. I take out Galya, the prettiest of my knives, the one with the mother-of-pearl handles, and start idly cleaning my fingernails.  
  
Marsh’s eyelid twitches, and he shoves the bar above his head with extra ferocity. I lean forward and whisper to Him. “You should fight him. It would be _hot_.”  
  
He snorts. “I’m not here to provide you with free porn.” Except accidentally. Accidentally-on-purpose, I suspect. He does like to be appreciated. Anyway, that takes care of _that_ possibility.  
  
“Can I go scare him then?”  
  
He snorts again, almost affectionately. “If you really want to. Don’t blame me if he wrings your fucking neck though.”  
  
I flash Him a smile and stroll over to Marsh, heart pounding, flipping Galya back and forth. I close her as I reach the last few feet, and slip her into my sleeve. Marsh lowers the bar and stares at me impassively. “Yes?”  
  
I smile, and step up close. “Do you want a spotter?” I whisper. I have to whisper so I won’t rasp or croak.  
  
He narrows his eyes. “So you do talk. Did he send you over here?”  
  
I shake my head.  
  
“Why did you come over?”  
  
I sit down on the bench next to him, so that our arms touch, and lean over to whisper in his ear. “I thought you might hurt yourself, and you could use some help.” I leave it unclear whether I intend to help him protect himself, or help him _hurt_ himself.  
  
He freezes. “I know how to lift, thank you,” he says after a moment.  
  
“But not how to keep from getting hurt.” I trail my fingers along the hair at the back of his neck, and he jerks away.  
  
“Says the guy who _stabbed_ me!”  
  
“I only held the knife. You stabbed yourself.”  
  
“But you were—“  
  
I tap him on the lower back, and he hisses. I didn’t even touch the wound. “Bickering is so unattractive. Just let me help you.”  
  
A faint growl rises out of his throat.  
  
I let my fingertips rest on his back. “I promise He won’t hurt you. Right now.”  
  
“I’m not worried about that,” he snarls, shaking me away from his ear. “Well? Get up then.”  
  
I do, and glance across the room at Him. He gives me a bemused half-grin and then shrugs, getting up to drop off the weights. He’s still sneaking glances at us though, I think.  
  
Marsh lies down on the bench and I almost get dizzy from the urge to climb on top of him. Instead I bend my knees, tighten my abs, and lightly curl my fingers around his wrists. He inhales quickly when I touch him, then takes a deliberate deep breath before pushing up the bar. I move my hands with him, keeping my touch on his wrists gentle and even, sliding across the skin only slightly as he moves. His hands stay steady and even through ten reps, then twenty. At twenty-two they start to shake and I hold his wrists firmly. He pushes up again, and again, and again, to twenty-five, and I help him back down. I release his wrists and take the bar away from him—somehow managing not to grunt with the effort—and lower it carefully to the ground.  
  
Marsh tries to sit up, and I push him back down by the shoulders. His eyes flare open and his eyebrows draw down, but he doesn’t resist. I crouch down and bend close. “Rest for at least 60 seconds,” I tell him.  
  
He narrows his eyes. His face looks funny upside down. I look at his mouth, imagining what it would feel like, then catch him watching me. We stare at each other for a moment, and I want to look away but I can’t do that first, that would mean I lost control of him. Instead I wipe the sweat from his brow and he flinches, breaking our gaze.  
  
“Oh come on, did that hurt?” I purr.  
  
He bares his teeth at me and sits up. “Fuck you.”  
  
_I wish._ I straddle the bench and lean my chin on his shoulder, tilting my head up to look at him. “You seem a little tense.”  
  
He shakes me off. “Why do you keep whispering like that? It’s creepy.”  
  
I should come up with something flirty and menacing, but all I can do is glare.  
  
“What?”  
  
I touch my hand to my throat.  
  
“Oh—you mean you can’t talk out loud? What hap—“ Katya’s blade cuts off his next words. I press her firmly against his mouth so she at least can feel what I can’t. And, of course, so he’ll shut the fuck up. He eyes me sidelong, but doesn’t move. After a moment, I pull her back and sweep her slowly back along his jawline, then put her away. I can hear Galya whining that she wants to taste him, Katya got some so why can’t she, but I ignore her. Katya’s more efficient. Galya is mostly for show, although she can certainly bite as well as the rest of them.  
  
His eyes are closed now. I open my mouth to tell him that his break is over, but before I can speak he says, “I’m sorry.”  
  
I freeze.  
  
He opens his eyes, but looks down. “I shouldn’t have pried. It was rude.”  
  
I nod, raising my eyebrows. I want to leave but I can’t, he would still have the upper hand. I think. I don’t even know anymore. Did he just give it back to me? Is this some kind of kinky thing?  
  
Marsh looks back at me. “Would you be willing to keep on helping me?”  
  
I blink.  
  
“I understand if you don’t want to.”  
  
I stare at him for a moment, paralyzed, then nod.  
  
We run through another set of presses, then three sets of lying triceps extensions, which don’t require me to touch him; I only touch the bar. Marsh keeps his eyes closed this time, trusting me to keep him aligned, and I watch his face as he works. He’s breathing steadily but sweating a lot. In between sets he stretches a little and then folds his hands on his midriff. I want to touch him again but I’m afraid to. Bad sign. I’d better do it right now then. I look around for Him. I don’t see Him anywhere, either directly or in any of the mirrors. It suddenly occurs to me that seeing Marsh face to face was supposed to make me _stop_ wanting him, and I wondered why I ever thought that would work.  
  
“Hey, bud, workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” Two men are walking over, their body language casual. I ease Katya partway out of my pocket, keeping her hidden in my hand.  
  
Marsh’s eyelid twitches faintly, and he opens his eyes and sits up, wiping his forehead and rubbing his palms. “You know me, I like to nap with free weights. They make great pillows.”  
  
I heft the bar and set it down on the floor, watching them. The quiet one is not fooled, I think. He looks a bit familiar, but he also looks like half the people here: average height, pale skin, dark straight shortish hair, sturdy but not showily muscled. His friend is tall and lanky, with a long nose and a brush of that no-color hair that’s somewhere between blond and brown. They’re probably from Four, or maybe a different part of Five.  
  
“Well why are you napping when you have company? And why haven’t you introduced us?”  
  
I grip Katya tighter and try to burn holes in the tall one’s face with my eyes. Unfortunately, I do not have that skill.  
  
Marsh glances at me and says carefully, “Actually, guys, would you excuse us? We were in the middle of something.” He smiles up at them.  
  
The tall one raises an eyebrow. “Well. Looks like you’re making progress then, huh?” He pats Marsh on the shoulder—I almost hiss—and turns to go. The quiet one follows, glancing back at both of us. He looks like he’s thinking some kind of thoughts. Not good.  
  
I follow them with my eyes until they’re gone, then scan the room again. No one seems to be looking at us.  
  
Marsh says, “Sorry about that. They didn’t mean any harm.”  
  
I give him a skeptical look. Was he trying to _protect_ me? Jesus fuck, this is not going well. I sit down next to him again, and whisper in his ear, “Lucky for them.” Oh shit, that didn’t come out right. That sounds like I’m protecting HIM.  
  
He turns and smiles at me, and I suddenly realize how close he is. “Really, most people on this ship are not a threat. They’re just trying to figure out who they’re going to be. You’re the only dangerous one I’ve met so far.”  
  
Such flattery! I think I’m blushing. To hide it, I whisper in his ear, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” I’ll ignore the slur to Him, Marsh can’t admit He’s dangerous or he’d be showing weakness.  
  
Marsh hesitates, then says, “Would you like to spot me on squats? I know it’s a little…close.”  
  
“Heaven forbid,” I breathe from a distance of roughly two centimeters. It’s taking all my self-control not to nip his earlobe.  
  
He snorts, then waits politely until I pull back to stand up. We get clear of the bench, and I step up behind him, hooking my arms under his and lifting my hands up to his shoulders. I’m not really tall enough for this, or he’s too tall, but I compensate by bending my knees less. We squat down slowly and he picks up the bar, lifting it up above his head and behind his neck. I can feel the heat from his body, and I get a little closer than I’m supposed to, laying my palms against his shoulders. I still keep my hips away from him, though, because I don’t particularly want him to drop the bar on me.  
  
It suddenly occurs to me how ridiculous we must look. I push that thought aside and concentrate on following his movements. When he starts to waver I pull his shoulders toward me to hold him up. He dips down three more times, just to be stubborn, and then chokes out, “Look out, I’m moving the bar.”  
  
I step back, and he hoists it over his head and lowers it to the ground. I creep up behind him again and breathe on his neck. “You shouldn’t exhaust yourself. What if somebody jumped you?”  
  
“No one’s going to jump me,” he scoffs, then looks at me. “Are they?”  
  
“I might.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think.  
  
He freezes. After a moment he says carefully, “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”  
  
_Sing ye angels!_ Or possibly fallen angels. I lean up to his ear and whisper, “Pervert.” This time I do bite his earlobe, and he inhales sharply and shivers.  
  
I bring my hand up around him again to stroke his chest, and he hisses, “We can’t DO this in here. Everyone’s watching.” Not strictly true, but we are pretty exposed right now.  
  
“Some people do. Usually in the showers, though.”  
  
He blushes all the way down to his collarbone. “Do you—do you want to go someplace else?”  
  
“Like the showers?” I tease.  
  
“Please don’t make me do that,” he begs, but the front of his pants appears to disagree. He’s right, though, it’s time to move out.  
  
“Where then?” I breathe.  
  
“My room?”  
  
“All right. You go first though. I’ll follow you.”  
  
He nods, and staggers off without replacing the bar. I click my tongue, and do it myself. I don’t have to tail him, I already did yesterday and I know his room number.    
  
When I get there Marsh is lurking outside, failing to look nonchalant. When he sees me he startles, then smiles shyly. I draw my fingernail along his neck to his jaw and lean close. “Real subtle.”  
  
He pants and his eyes drift closed, but he says nothing.  
  
“I guess subtle isn’t your specialty.” I run my tongue over his earlobe, and he gasps and spreads his feet further apart to lower himself so I have better access. “What is, I wonder?”  
  
He still doesn’t answer. I like the idea that I’ve made him speechless. I move along his jaw toward his mouth, flicking my tongue out delicately like a snake. When I reach his mouth I hover a few centimeters away, breathing and feeling his breath. I touch the tip of my tongue to his upper lip and he surges forward and kisses me.  
  
_Oh god._ My hands come up to his chest and I lean into him, backing him up to the wall. He moans and clutches desperately at the back of my head, and I think he might actually devour me, and that I wouldn’t mind if he did.  
  
Marsh breaks off and gasps, “Sorry, sorry I should have asked first.”  
  
“I’ll try to forgive you,” I hiss, “if you open the goddamn door.”  
  
***  
  
I could barely remember my door combination, and my hands were shaking, so it took me a few seconds to get us in. It didn’t help that he was pressing himself against me and kneading my ass. Once the door shut behind us he slammed me against the wall and I clutched at him like a drowning man, my mouth full of his predatory tongue. His hands were all over me, undoing my belt, pulling up my shirt, and I broke the kiss for a moment to yank my shirt over my head. He fastened his lips to mine again, and wriggled out of his jacket without breaking contact. I tugged his shirt up too, and we had to stop kissing again to get it off. But only briefly.  
  
He pulled me away from the wall and steered me toward the bed. He pulled my pants down to my knees, and then pushed me down onto the mattress and ripped at his own pants to push them down too. And then he was on me, his hand pressed down hard over my mouth, straddling my leg and gripping my cock in his other hand. I arched up and clutched the bedposts, panting.  
  
“Good boy,” he whispered in my ear. His other hand was—my god, rubbing and caressing and taking possession, thumbing the slit and spreading the wetness all around, and my breath was coming so fast and I dug the heels of my boots into the mattress and thrust up to meet him. His face so wicked and so intent, his gaze pinning me down just like his hand over my mouth, and a helpless longing sound tore its way out of my throat. His other hand moved faster and tighter, and everything was a blur and all I could do was writhe and gasp. He leaned down and whispered _slut_ and I screamed into his palm as my back arched and I came so hard I almost threw him off.  
  
The weight of his hand disappeared from my mouth, and he threw himself on top of me and kissed me hungrily. My hands let go of the bedposts and came up around him, dreamily stroking his back. His body was tense, his erection burning against my thigh. I let my hands wander lower, and he gave a tiny strangled sound and thrust against me.  
  
I managed to get my mouth free for long enough to pant, “Do you want me to, to help you?”  
  
His eyes burned into mine. After a moment he nodded and shifted partway off me, to the inner side of the bed. I ran my hand along the elegant line of his hip and upper thigh, then swept down to cup his balls. He inhaled, pressing into my hand, and biting my shoulder hard enough to make me gasp. I kneaded gently until he tugged at my wrist, and I moved up to wrap my hand around his cock.  
  
He bit me again, on the neck this time, and held his teeth there until I started to writhe again from the pain and the—oh. I stroked him slowly and firmly, and he pushed forward into my hand, panting. “Is this good?” I asked.  
  
He nodded, and took my face in his hands to devour my mouth again. The kiss was sloppy this time, desperate, like we were trying to climb into each others' mouths. He moaned helplessly and I couldn’t believe he was really there pressed against me, all steel and silk and heat, and I clutched the back of his head and stroked him faster and harder. His breath came quick and shallow, and he was shaking and so beautiful, and he pulled his mouth away to suck on my neck. His teeth sank in again and we cried out and arched together as he came all over me.  
  
I pulled him on top of me again and kissed him, letting my hands roam sleepily over his back and sides. He let out a tiny contented noise and tucked his head into the hollow of my shoulder.  
  
“You feel so good,” I murmured.  
  
He pressed a damp kiss to my neck and stroked my chest.  
  
I was in danger of drifting off. After a bit I asked, “Do you want to get in the shower with me?”  
  
He shook his head. “You can’t move,” he whispered.  
  
My hands stilled.  
  
“But keep touching me.”  
  
“Mkay.” I was so drowsy that my hands didn’t want to keep moving, but it was important to make him happy. And I liked touching him. I was so glad that I was allowed to touch him. It was a beautiful surprise.  
  
He was shifting on top of me, rolling off. I made an inarticulate noise of protest and clutched at him.  
  
“You fell asleep,” he accused.  
  
“No, sorry sorry, don’t go—“  
  
“I could have stabbed you and you wouldn’t even have noticed.”  
  
This woke me up a bit. “I think I might notice that.”  
  
“Is that what I need to do to get your attention? Use the agonic method?”  
  
“The what?”  
  
“There are two major ways of getting attention,” he whispered to me. “Hedonic,” he waved his hand in front of my face and planted a kiss on my neck, “and agonic.” His teeth sank into me, and I yelped and grabbed his shoulders. “I think you like the agonic method.”  
  
“Well,” I panted, “that one does wake me up better. I’m not sure it doesn’t count as hedonism, though.”    
  
“That’s because you like it,” he breathed in my ear, and twisted my nipple hard. “Tell me you like it.”  
  
“Please—“  
  
He twisted harder, and I whimpered.  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“I like it,” I whispered finally.  
  
“Good boy,” he whispered back, and released his grip. His tongue snaked into my ear, probed in and out, made me writhe and moan.  
  
“Did you just—“ I gasped. “Did you just torture me into admitting that I like being tortured?”  
  
He looked up at me, damp silky black hair hanging over his grey eyes. He does have two of them after all. “I think you’re overthinking it.”  
  
“I think I’m having trouble thinking right now, so overthinking might be something like regular thinking. I think.”  
  
“Too much talking.” He lunged forward and kissed me, his tongue plunging into my mouth.  
  
I sputtered before I could think about how rude it was. “Gaaah, sorry about the earwax.”  
  
He snorted. “I knew what I was getting into. Your punishment can be…you have to do the same to me.”  
  
I smiled. “Oh no, not that.”  
  
He scooted up higher and offered his ear to me. I licked around the edge, biting the lobe gently, and then shoved my tongue in. It tasted a little bitter but there was no noticeable debris. He sighed and stretched, kneading my chest like a cat. I pushed in and out, slowly at first, then faster and harder. It took a surprising amount of effort. Maybe I needed to do tongue exercises. His fingernails dug into my collarbone and scratched burning lines down my chest, and I kneaded his ass roughly.  
  
He gasped and pulled away to offer me his other ear. I licked around that one, too, then pushed in. This time he sobbed out loud and ground against me. “ _Who’s_ a pervert?” I whispered, and plunged in again.  
  
“You—are gonna be sorry—you said that—mmmh—ohhh—“ He pushed his ass up against my hands.  
  
I wanted to respond but my tongue was busy. He writhed and panted, and I instinctively clenched him closer, restricting his movements.  
  
“Fuck.” He sobbed once more, then pulled his ear away. “Let go.”  
  
My hands fell away to my sides, as if they obeyed him, not me.  
  
He sat up, nearly bumping his head on the bottom of the upper bunk, then twisted around to fish around in the pants still wadded up around his calves. I felt a jolt of fear. Or…something. What was he getting? He came back with a couple of packets of—oh. He ripped one off and pressed it into my hand. I stared dumbly at it for a moment, and he sighed and hissed, “I hope I don’t regret this.” He took it back from me, tore it open, and squeezed the contents onto my hand, spreading the lube slowly over my fingers. “Please tell me you’ve done this before.”  
  
“Of course I have,” I finally managed. “But if I hadn’t, I’d be feeling pretty awful right now.”  
  
“Boo hoo. Take it out on my ass.”  
  
“ _You_ might regret saying that,” I bluffed.  
  
“Just remember, my knives haven’t had breakfast yet.”  
  
I shivered in spite of myself. “What do they eat?”  
  
“You know what. Now shut up and put your fingers in me.” He lay down on top of me again, getting up higher than before so I had easier access.  
  
“Could you turn to the side a little?”  
  
He grumbled but complied. I lifted his leg and reached under it so I could use an underhand stroke, much less awkward than coming in from the top at this angle. When I touched him he inhaled and tensed, and I gently rubbed lube around the outside.  
  
“Is that okay?”  
  
He nodded, eyes closed.  
  
I rubbed and caressed more firmly, starting to probe a little with my middle finger. He breathed faster and pushed back a little. I slipped it in a little way, and felt him clench tightly around it. “How about now?”  
  
“ _More._ Move.”  
  
I kissed his neck and shoulder, then carefully obeyed. I fluttered my finger almost in place, moving it slowly further in. He writhed and thrust back until I was pushing (or pulling, rather) most of the finger in and out. “Do you want another finger?”  
  
“Yes goddammit. You don’t have to be so slow.”  
  
“I like being slow.”  
  
“You like being _sassy_ —ohh!” I had added the second finger. “Fuck. That’s better but—come on, faster.”  
  
I slowed down. “What happens if I don’t?” I don’t know what was getting into me.  
  
“I will—fucking cut off your fingers and give them to the cooks to make soup.”  
  
“Ouch. But then what will happen to your poor derriere?” I probed deeper, searching for the spot that would make him go to pieces.  
  
 “Ohhh. I’ll—I’ll—oh fuck—I’ll—“ He panted wordlessly for a few seconds.  
  
“That sounds terrifying already.”  
  
He grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back, biting my throat until I yelped. “I’ll tie you up and gag you,” he hissed, “so you can’t talk back, and then I’ll sit on you.”  
  
“You’re already sitting on me,” I felt compelled to point out. “Well, lying on me.”  
  
“I’ll sit on _this_ ,” he grabbed my cock, “which I’m starting to suspect might be the only useful part of you.”  
  
“Are you sure?” I slipped a third finger in, and he clenched around me and sobbed.  
  
“You fucking bastard, I will fucking END you, just fuck me.” His fingers hadn’t left me, either, and they started to stroke absentmindedly although his palm stayed in place.  
  
I tried not to whimper. “Maybe we could just—ahhh—skip the part where you cut off my fingers? And move on to the part where you sit on me? If you want to. I’ll be a lot more useful if I’m not bleeding to death.”  
  
He jerked my head back by the hair again, and stared into my eyes. My fingers stilled, and I couldn’t breathe. “No talking back,” he whispered after a moment. “No talking at all, unless I tell you to.”  
  
I nodded, and swallowed.  
  
He let go of me—alas!—and reached for the other packet of lube. “You can take your fingers out.”  
  
I carefully withdrew them. He sat up and promptly hit his head on the bottom of the upper bunk, spitting out something in Russian.  
  
I opened my mouth to ask if he was okay but remembered I wasn’t allowed to speak. I grimaced sympathetically instead, and mimed pushing the upper bunk into the wall.  
  
He grumbled, but nodded. He unhooked the safety catches, and I reached up to pull the mattress down to the floor as he pushed the bunk into the wall. He pulled off his boots and socks and wriggled out of his pants. I really hoped my roommate didn’t decide to come back anytime soon.  
  
He straddled me again, and I stroked his hips and thighs. My mother’s disembodied voice told me it wasn’t _sanitary_ given where my fingers had just been, but I reminded her that the lube they leave lying around in bowls in the med bay doubles as non-alcoholic hand sanitizer, and anyway it wasn’t _polite_ of her to be in my head just now. She acknowledged that and disappeared, thankfully, because he was opening the second packet and spreading the contents onto me and his hand had just become the only interesting and important thing in the world. I couldn’t stop watching. It was sliding and gripping and—I groaned and pushed up. I wondered what his mouth would feel like. I knew I hadn’t earned that, though. Not that I had earned this, either.  
  
He smiled wickedly, and got up onto his knees. For the first time I really got a chance to look at him, naked I mean, and I wished I could draw or paint because he was so breathtakingly beautiful, sleek and streamlined and ivory-pale, with faint scars scattered across his body like scrimshaw.  
  
He scowled. “What?”  
  
I hesitated, then pointed to my mouth.  
  
“You can talk.”  
  
“You’re just…so beautiful. That’s all.” I ducked my head.  
  
He planted a hand on my chest and leaned forward. “I’m already fucking you, you don’t need to flatter me.”  
  
“I’m not!”  
  
“All right, no more talking.”  
  
I looked at him sadly, then gasped because he’d just grabbed my cock. He lowered himself down onto it, teasing me by rubbing it against him without putting it in. I panted and gave him a pleading look, and he grinned and pushed his hips down, and I threw my head back and sobbed as I felt him gripping me inside. The heat, and the tension, and the sweet wet-velvet feel that kept inching down, then up, then further down, all drove me mad, and I had to fight myself not to thrust up into him. He pressed his hands to my chest for better control, and I looked up at him again. His head was tilted back, eyes half-closed, lips firmly pressed together. His chest was heaving, his hips working slowly and rhythmically, and I couldn’t take it anymore and thrust upward once. His eyes flew open and he bit his lip, but he didn’t protest or punish me.  
  
I took another chance and moved my hands up to his thighs, rubbing them. He didn’t stop me, so I reached for his cock, which looked desperate for attention. He slapped my hand away before I could get to it, then gasped because he’d inadvertently sunk down further onto me. “Not yet. Won’t last. But—you can fuck me now.”  
  
I licked my lips and nodded, then moved my hands back to his hips and pushed up. We both moaned, and he ground his ass into my groin and I thought I might die right there, and die happy. I thrust up into him over and over, trying to angle it just right, and his breathing came louder and faster and his movements became more frantic until he was sobbing aloud and suddenly there were words in it, Russian words I think, entire sentences were coming out of him and he wasn’t whispering at all, he was nearly shouting. His voice was hoarse but no more so than anyone crying out in passion, anyone who had cried too much. I was transfixed, a prisoner of his voice and his hands and his body. 

Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed one of my wrists, yanking my hand off his hip and toward his erection. I took hold of it eagerly and he shouted without words, sinking all the way down onto me. More Russian words spilled out of him as I pumped him fast and hard, and he dug his nails into my chest again. I bit my lip to keep from calling out and thrust up harder than before, forgetting to be careful, and he cried out desperately. My right hand flew as my left held his hip steady, and then he was tensing around me, so hard it almost hurt, and he screamed bright and sharp like one of his knives and spurted onto my already soiled torso.  
  
He collapsed onto me and sucked my tongue into his mouth. I was drunk, still moving dreamily inside him, and I didn’t understand for a moment why he was tugging on one of my arms. “Get on top of me, you idiot,” he hissed after a moment.  
  
“Oh,” I said intelligently, with my mouth full. I kissed him for another long moment, then flipped us over and looked at him. His hair had fallen back over the top of his head, except for the strands sticking to his sweaty face, and his mouth was rosy. His grey eyes, darker than before, were barely visible under the black fringe of his eyelashes. “Come _on_ ,” he whispered.  
  
I brushed the sticky strands back to join the rest of his hair, then lowered my mouth to his neck and pushed in again. It occurred to me that he was under me now, and had to mind. I grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head. His eyes flew open, but he said nothing. I bit his nipple and he arched up with a gasp, then watched me quietly, lips parted, as I began to move again. _You’re mine_ , I thought. _Not his. You came to me. You came with me. You spoke out loud for me. You like me better. You’re mine now._ Sinful thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. I didn’t care. He was looking at me like it was all true.  
  
  
***  
  
I don’t know what possessed me to let Marsh flip me over on my back and fuck me like that. Well, to _tell_ him to do it, if I must be honest. I’m supposed to be keeping the upper hand, and here he is literally pinning my hands down, and all I can do is try to memorize his face, the feel of his body, the deep animal sounds he’s making, this entire luscious moment. I’m so fuck-drunk that I can hardly remember _why_ I’m supposed to keep the upper hand, which I guess is why I didn’t.  
  
I even called him Marsh during my monologue по-русски, but luckily “Marsh” sounds like a Russian word, or part of one. Well, technically it _is_ a Russian word, meaning “march,” although it’s not something most people are likely to say during sex unless they have some kind of antique military fetish. I thought I was so clever at the time, talking in a language he doesn’t know, but I said all kinds of embarrassing things that I hope he doesn’t remember and look up, or god forbid ask someone about. Things like, _Oh Marsh, fuck you’re so hot, I love taking your cock, fuck me till I scream, turn me over and pound me and make me your bitch, you’re so hot, I don’t want anyone but you_. I’m tempted to keep saying them now, though, because he’s on top of me, my legs wrapped around his hips, his cock pushing in faster and faster, and somehow the fact that I just came makes me feel like more of a slut because I like it so much even though I don’t need to get off right now. I like it so, so much. Goddammit Marsh, why do you have to feel so good?  
  
I whimper and the sound must have excited him because he shoves into me hard, stiffening and shuddering, letting out a long groan. “Marsh,” I whisper so quietly I hope he can’t hear. His body relaxes, a heavy and comforting anchor, and his mouth seeks out mine again.  
  
My hands are free now and I run them over his shoulders and through his hair. He sighs happily and presses damp little kisses all over my face, then rests his head on my chest. I’ve just decided to make him stay there for the rest of the trip to base, no matter how smelly and hungry we get, when the door opens with a whoosh and someone I don’t recognize stumbles in. “Aww fuck, can’t a guy just barf in the shower and crawl into bed without….all this? My bed isn’t even there anymore.”  
  
Marsh tries to pull the covers over himself but fails because we’re lying on top of them, then starts to get up but stops when he realizes that would leave me exposed. “Sorry. Can you just give us….ten minutes? We can set it back up.”  
  
The intruder whines, “Oh, jus’ leave it on the floor. I don’t wanna climb right now, my head hurts. I’m going in the shower.” And he staggers into the bathroom before Marsh can stop him.  
  
Marsh looks down at me. “I am _so_ sorry. Wait. You know what? I’m not going to be sorry.” He swings himself off me and strides into the bathroom, magnificently naked and filthy. After a moment he emerges, dragging his hungover roommate by the collar. “I will make it up to you later, I promise,” he tells him, “but you need to clear out NOW. That is final. I know it’s not fair, but neither is life. See you later.” He shoves him out into the hallway, and the door closes.  
  
I’m laughing silently, propped up on my elbows. “My hero,” I whisper as he sits down next to me.  
  
“I knew there was no chance we could actually use the shower once he got in there. So, want to go do that now? Before he forgets what just happened and comes back in?”  
  
I nudge Marsh off the bed and get up. “Next time we’re going to _my_ room.” I wonder why he’s giving me such a dopey smile?  
  
***  
  
_Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer_. Whoever made that proverb probably didn’t mean you should actually sleep with them, or maybe they did, who knows. Why not invite the monster under the bed up into the bed with you? At least you can see what you’re dealing with. At least you get a chance to grapple with it, to take it on. My greatest fear is the absence of monsters. That was why I signed up in the first place. Who do you fight when your father loses his job because he’s been there too long and the company doesn’t want to give him the raise they owe him? Who do you fight when your boyfriend breaks down in tears, says he knows he doesn’t deserve you but he’s in love with someone else? Who do you fight when your grandmother, the backbone of the family, the kindest person you’ve ever known, stares at you blankly and says, “Who are you, stupid boy?”  
  
I can’t tell anyone this, but the Colterons were the best thing that ever happened to me. If I ever meet one, I’ll be tempted to shake its hand. Claw. Pseudopod. Whatever. And then I’ll punch its face in. I was almost not sorry that my new crush came packaged with that blue-streaked asshole, because chances were good that I would get to punch _his_ face in soon. Unless he was all talk and let his beautiful knife-wielding friend do the dirty work for him. I hoped not.  
  
For the moment, though, that beautiful, deadly friend was in my arms, and we were washed clean. We were monster enough for each other, and we didn’t need to fight.  
   
***

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there goes my headcanon in which Praxis never gets laid. Neither of them gives a shit about my headcanon, and why should they? 
> 
> Sorry about the earwax. That’s just, um, what happens when you do that. Sorry also if I messed up anything about free weights. I used to do some weight lifting, but only on machines, and you don’t need spotters there, so I had to look it up. There are some truly hilarious youtube videos about proper spotting technique. A lot of them focus on how to avoid making it GAY, because apparently spotting is just naturally homoerotic.
> 
> If you know about the hedonic and agonic modes, you may have noticed that Deimos is using them in a manner that doesn’t quite match up with their original meaning. I decided this was plausible given that his definition was the one I originally heard from a person.
> 
> Praxis would like you to know that the “bedposts” he was clutching are not technically bedposts, but rather the bars of the ladder to the upper bunk. He could not rest if he thought you thought I had committed an inconsistency in this matter. He’s so considerate that way.
> 
> “Myedvyed” means bear, “Gdye tui” means “where (are) you,” and “по-русски” means “in Russian.” You could probably guess those from context, though.


End file.
